Learning to Breathe Again
by Nahaliel
Summary: This isn't the way it was supposed to be. Peter had always thought it would be him. In his line of work, it's not something he can just rule out. The bullet, the blood, the whispered last words. He wishes it was him. Not a death fic. Neal whump, angst.


_**Random one shot. Angst... Hurt/comfort... A few tears...**_

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't ever _supposed_ to happen. El squeezes his hand tightly, and he shifts in the uncomfortable chair. There's no way he can just settle down, relax, do what they told him to do. Fuck them. The person lying in that ICU isn't just somebody else.

His partner. His friend.

_This isn't the way it was supposed to be_. Peter had always thought it would be him. In his line of work, it's not something he can just rule out. The bullet, the blood, the whispered last words. He wishes it was him.

He's up on his feet, the chair clatters to the floor and El backs away. Eyes wide, frightened. She looks so sad. His fist makes a clean hole in the plaster, leaving little crimson drops in the white powdery chunks that litter the floor. He stares.

Blood.

Red, red, red, staining his hands; his jacket, scrunched up into a makeshift compress, is soaked through. No. Please don't leave.

"You stay with me, Neal," he says forcefully, blinking rapidly. Rain streams down his face in rivers. Neal's shirt is drenched in an ugly pink and red mess, blood mixing with the rain.

"I c-can't… Sorry, P'ter…" Neal chokes, face ashen and contorted in agony. His teeth are stained pink with blood, it bubbles over his colorless lips.

The rain continues to fall. Peter is soaked through, his grey suit now black and clinging to his skin. Red is seeping up his pant leg, at the knees, from where he's kneeling down next to Neal. There's too much blood, so much blood. The coppery tang is overpowering. He battles his gag reflex.

Neal's hair is wet, and sticking to his pale forehead. He looks lost. So lost. He's gripping the fabric of Peter's shirt tightly in his shaking fist. _Don't let me die alone._ His blue eyes are dimming.

"No, Neal! You stay with me. You hang on."

He's washed his hands at least sixty times in that hospital bathroom, scrubbing the skin raw. They're still pink, between the creases, under his finger nails. Neal's precious life still stains them. He wants it off. And back where it belongs.

_Why would you do that, Neal?_

The bullet had been for him. _For him._

"Peter…"

El's voice. He turns to her slowly. Ever so slowly. For fear of further breaking what's already been shattered in him. She grips his hand in hers and pulls him off down a deserted corridor. He lets her guide him. He's lost his direction, can't focus. White windows flit by, a few doctors in pristine white gowns. The color of Neal's shirt before-

"Peter."

She's holding both his hands tightly in his, ignoring the torn flesh across his knuckles, and the blood she's getting on her own hands. It doesn't hurt. He can't feel.

But then he's looking into her eyes. Blue, blue, blue and glistening with unshed tears.

He breaks.

In the space of a second.

It starts with a single tear, tracking its way down his cheek; she lifts her hand, brushes it away and he's sobbing. He wraps his arms around her body and crushes her to him with no intention of letting go.

"That bullet was…for me."

She cries too. Her hands are in his hair, on his neck. Nothing can soothe the pain that's tearing him from the inside out. They don't know if Neal will be okay. No one will tell them anything.

"I love you. It's okay. We're going to be okay," comes her broken whisper, warm air against his ear. He listens, he wants it to be true and holds her tighter.

**000**

Dying isn't what he expected. Yes, it was painful. And cold. But there was no spectacular exit, no final reverence. Just nothingness. His eyes slid shut and that was that.

He's sure he's dead, because the next time he opens his eyes, the white is back, surrounding everything and smoothing out shapes into an unidentifiable…nothing.

White, white, white and all of a sudden color. Gray, metal, blue, red, brown. White again. Then a voice. Telling him to breathe. Breathe? He can't. Well, he is dead after all, but he tries anyway.

There's something in his throat, uncomfortable, foreign. He chokes.

"Neal. Easy. Don't fight it, let it help you breathe."

That sounds like Peter. Or at least he thinks so.

And then Peter really is there, a soft, warm hand on his chest, rubbing gentle circle as he chokes again.

"There you go, just breathe with it."

Peter is fuzzy around the edges, adding to his disheveled appearance. He's wearing the same shirt he was the last time Neal saw him. Light blue. With…with the red stain, seeping up from the hem on the left side, all the way to his middle.

That wasn't there last time.

Blood.

Now he remembers. A lot of it. His own. He'll ponder that later, because Peter is here, so things can't be as bad as they seem. Maybe he's not so dead after all.

**000**

Peter is still there, the next time he opens his eyes. There's pain this time. It's a dull, pulsing sensation, from somewhere deep inside his chest that he can't place exactly, because everything _hurts_.

"Neal? Do you need me to get a doctor?"

He blinks through the tears stinging his eyes and concentrates on just breathing. He can breathe now. There nothing in his throat this time. But god, it's sore. He turns his head fractionally and his eyes fall on Peter, who's dressed the same as he was the first time; the blood is still there.

Neal shakes his head feebly, through the tears.

"You sure?"

"Ye…ah…" he rasps in a low whisper, a voice so different from his own. He runs his tongue over his dry lips.

Peter takes a deep breath, and blows it out slowly. Neal watches. "If you ever… do that again-"

"'m s'rry."

"What?" Peter asks, voice breaking. Their eyes lock; against all the white, Neal's are bluer than he's ever seen them.

"Couldn't let you…die."

A single, crystal tear slides down Peter's cheek and lands on his torn knuckles.

"No one…wants you to die, Neal. Why would you want that?" His voice is thick with emotion; he runs a hand over his mouth.

Neal did want to die. It had been a passing thought. A dark one, that haunted his dreams and the countless sleepless nights of watching macabre shadows dance across the darkened room. But not now. For the first time in his life, someone is there. More than one someone. Before Peter, before El, Mozzie, hell even Diana and Jones… His life was a lonely place to be.

"No," he chokes out, "I w'nted… y'to live."

Peter's hand comes to rest on the top of his bare shoulder, familiar, calloused, strong. Neal doesn't want to die. He wants to live. Breathe. Be.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
